Strawberry Blonde
by Swiftchanted
Summary: Everyone always seemed to mistake Lydia's hair for red, which was a seeming mistake. It looked red, so why not call it that? There was only one person who really knew everything about her, right down to the technical terms of her hair color, and these are the five times he informed the public of the truth (and the one time that she had to remind him of it).


**A/N: Honestly, I've got no idea what this madness is. It's just simply madness. And I think at some point, everyone writes one of these 5 things +1 (or however many you choose, it varies all the time) and this is just my turn at bat. I'm sorry for anything that's kind of crazy; first time writing Stydia or anything in the Teen Wolf-verse for that matter after the binge watch and at 2 AM is not really my brightest combo, but who knows? Maybe it is. I just hope you enjoy me. Don't mind the fluff demon.**

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**i.**

Third grade was the days of pigtails and t-shirts with dinosaurs and guitars on them for the kids at Beacon Hill Elementary. It was the days of spending recesses chasing after the girls who wanted nothing to do with the boys who just wanted a kiss, it was the days of eating unhealthy lunches and lying to their parents about it (Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski, but they'd lie to you about that as well) and most importantly, it was the days that Stiles Stilinski came to the conclusion that he was in love with Lydia Martin.

Lydia, the prettiest girl on the playground in her skirts and braided pigtails with ribbons in them, most incidentally on the days when the sun seemed to shine the brightest; Lydia, the girl who always passed her spelling tests before the actual tests on Fridays, but most importantly Lydia, who had no inkling of Stiles' existence.

Sitting on the edge of the sandbox with Scott, who at the time, was more brooding than any normal third grader, Stiles watched as Lydia swung extraordinarily high on the swings, gracefully throwing her body off of the seat and making a clean landing on the ground. The smug little smile on her face was hard to miss as she turned around, walking back over to the swings where the other girls stared at her as if she was now their Queen.

"She's so beautiful, don't you agree?" Stiles said in a particularly dreamy voice, his eyes still glued to Lydia. Scott, who had been tracing circles behind him in the sand, looked up as if he was shocked his best friend was acknowledging his presence.

"Are you talking about what's her face…uh, Lydia?" Scott asked, just to receive a dirty glare from his friend.

"Uh, yeah, of course I am, I mean really, what other girl on this playground is as pretty as her?" Stiles fired off.

"Well, let's see, there's—"

Shoving Scott, Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that wasn't an actual question I wanted an answer to, but thanks, wise guy."

"No problem-o," Scott chimed back, looking out onto the playground in the same manner his friend was.

"Out of all the girls you could have fallen _'in love'_ with, it had to be the bossy redhead who doesn't even know who we are?"

"Okay, she's not that bossy—I mean, sometimes she likes to take control over every little situation, but it doesn't mean she's bossy." Stiles paused, staring at the little girl who was now seated back on a swing, gleefully laughing as she pumped her legs to gain height. He then turned to look at Scott head-on. "And her hair isn't red, it's strawberry blonde."

"Strawberry _what_?"

"Strawberry blonde, it's like red but it's not quite; see how much lighter it is when the sun—"

"Stiles?" Scott interrupted his friend, to which he got a very innocent expression colored on his friend's face staring right back at him.

"Yeah, Scott?"

"No offense, but I really don't care about the difference between a redhead and a…strawberry blonde head."

_That's okay, Scott. She's already got someone who does._

**ii.**

It's the summer before freshman year, an even more obvious reminder to Stiles that he's yet to make his existence known to half the people in Beacon Hills, but more importantly, to the one that matters the most.

Lydia Martin and her even more angelic aura that surrounded her still probably had no idea of his existence, despite the fact they'd been in the same class since that fateful third grade year. Stiles liked to think it was the fact they weren't next to each other on role call like Lydia and Scott, because Lydia seemed to know who Scott was just fine. All of Stiles' efforts went unnoticed, which was expected on his half, because he knew that it was all that damn Jackson's fault.

Jackson and his stupid little smug smirk that permanently resided on his face who played for the varsity lacrosse team even in the eighth grade—not like he was that special anyways—was the only thing that currently put a halt on his ten year plan to make Lydia fall in love with him. Lydia was obsessed with the mere idea of Jackson and it sickened Stiles. A cocky douchebag like Jackson Whittemore could have Lydia right in the palm of his hands, but sweet Stiles who fell up and down the stairs on a daily basis couldn't?

Yeah, it made sense.

Avoiding the two of them who were obviously on something like a date would have been the wiser choice, but Stiles' brain—aka Scott, even if he wasn't much of a brain—wasn't present. Instead, he chose the table closest to them, despite his father's growls to quit with the hyperactive behavior. Stiles sat there, shooting looks at Lydia practically the whole meal, and Lydia never even noticed who was sitting next to her.

There was nothing special about Jackson, anyways. He was nothing but one of those jocks who probably spent his time in the mornings looking in the mirror and fixing his hair or kissing whatever muscles he had. He probably didn't tell Lydia how beautiful she was as many times as she deserved to hear—which was all the time, he probably didn't tell her that her green eyes were the prettiest in the sunlight because that was when the light soaked up all the color; hell, he probably didn't even know her eyes were green anyways. Jackson cared about Jackson and everyone who knew Jackson in the slightest knew that.

At least he made Lydia happy. That was all that really mattered to Stiles, even if it was an egotistical asshole who thought he was the shit for playing varsity in middle school. He probably wasn't even that good anyways.

Sheriff Stilinski put down the bill, rising from his chair at the end of the meal, staring at his son in utter confusion. Stiles was not-too-discreetly trying to listen in on the lack of conversation between the two people beside him. "Stiles, we're leaving," his dad said, shaking his son out of whatever world he was in.

"Oh, yeah, right okay," Stiles muttered as he scrambled to stand from his seat while keeping up on his eavesdropping.

Lydia twirled a lock of hair around her finger, disinterestedly staring at her plate. "Do you think I should straighten my hair or curl it for your next game?" she asked, squaring her shoulders and looking up at Jackson. "I want to look cute, I mean, I am the lacrosse legend's girlfriend."

"It's hair," Jackson groaned. "Just…do something with it; it'll still be red by the end of the game and no one will be paying attention to it anyways."

The next thing the two of them knew, Stiles' head had entered their peripheral vision. "Actually, it's strawberry blonde," he clarified.  
Jackson stared back at the boy with the most bewildered look spread over his face. "What?" Lydia followed suit, mimicking the word a few seconds later.

"Her hair," Stiles said, pointing at a confused Lydia. "It's not red, it's strawberry blonde." He didn't have time to say anything else, due to his livid father dragging him away from their table after that.

Jackson and Lydia just exchanged looks, before Lydia's eyes drifted down to the lock of hair still caught between her fingers. That kid was right, it wasn't all that red anyways.

Stiles would have been proud.

**iii.**

It's not that hard to actually lose a teenage girl who's being kept in the hospital after almost being eaten by a psychotic werewolf—or at least, that's what most sane people would assume. This was Beacon Hills, though. Anything was possible.

Stiles was going out of his mind worrying over her; there was no reason not to, in reality. One of the coldest nights of the entire year impending upon them, and the fact Lydia had taken flight out of her shower wasn't a reassuring thought. He hadn't had any comforting bits of news on her in what felt like forever; ever since that night at the formal, it had been like walking on a bunch of upright toothpicks when it came to her mental state and those goddamn doctors. They really weren't giving him the benefit of the doubt, and despite his sheer dedication and the evidence that he'd stayed around even longer than her family had (go look on the cameras, he'd tell them if they asked, it's not like I actually have a life or anything) they refused to let him near her due to the fact he wasn't a Martin.

Of course, he'd sneaked in there and of course, he had his cover story of how it was an arranged marriage in order to go back to older, simpler times and she merely had been as forgetful as to keep the medical system updated on these things rehearsed and ready to spit out. It didn't change the fact that he was hardly allowed to see her except through a glass divider. His back was still all kinds of fucked up from sleeping across the hospital chairs, and he couldn't recall the last time his last meal was an actual meal as opposed to the vending machines very limited options. Of course, now he'd have to find another resort, seeing as how they were still trying to find the guy who had managed to tip over and break a vending machine.

The thought of Lydia running around, lost somewhere in the freezing cold didn't settle his nerves any. He was still coming down off the paranoia of her recent near-death experience (thanks Peter, and no, you won't be missed at all, he thinks) and this was simply the sprinkles on top of the icing. It wasn't an uncommon fact that Stiles worried more about Lydia than he did himself. The current moment wasn't an exception in the slightest.

Making his way through the halls towards the exit, he could see his dad talking to some of his coworkers and the staff, but no words were clear enough to make out. In his head, his father was already talking about that damn APB, something he put out there way too much for anyone's liking. The closer he got, the easier it was to hear his father's conversations. The sheriff stopped in his tracks, Stiles slowing down to listen in even further.

"All right," the sheriff said, looking back and forth between his men. "Let's get an APB out on a 16 year-old redhead; any other descriptors?"

Cringing at all the errors and sheer injustices to Lydia's appearance in his father's statement, but also wanting to be of some help to this _Save Lydia From Turning Into an Icicle or Dying_ campaign, Stiles pushed forward.

"5 foot 3, green eyes, fair-skinned," he interjected, before looking at his father. "And her hair is actually strawberry blonde."

If looks could have killed, the sheriff would have sent his son beyond the typical six feet.

**iv.**

Graduation wasn't something Stiles wasn't really excited for; it was something that he considered himself lucky enough to make it to with all limbs intact and his heart still pumping. Lydia was the one who was looking forward to graduation—she was the one who cared more about getting up on a stage in front of the entire town and making a speech with a shit ton of big words that Stiles had zero knowledge of. She was the one who couldn't wait to get her diploma and throw her hat up in the air. Stiles was the one who just couldn't wait until the post-graduation buffet that he'd been promised.

Finding her after the ceremony proved to be a lot harder than he had expected; of course everyone would want to talk to the valedictorian. As crazy as they might have written her off as, she was still Lydia Martin who threw the best birthday parties and had the mind of a genius. Would've been a hell of a lot easier if he was just Stiles McCall, that way he would have been at least closer to her in the progression of this thing. Stupid ancestors. What kind of name was Stilinski anyways?

Walking—really pushing, but he didn't want to come off as rude or anything—through the throngs of people, he bumped into Scott and Melissa, who were both excitedly jabbering about that buffet afterwards that Stiles could hear calling to him. The two of them both caught sight of him, to which he just simply smiled and waved. "Oh, congratulations!" Melissa beamed as she embraced Stiles.

"Thanks, Melissa," he said, awkwardly hugging her back. "I'm just glad to have survived long enough to see it. And pass."

"I'm so proud of you two—I know Allison would have been so proud of you two." And there was the reopening of the Allison wound, which still stung after all this time. Especially Scott, who had never really gotten over her death like he claimed he had. Sure, he had Kira, but Kira wasn't Allison. Stiles could see that she knew that and that it hurt her, but she still smiled through it all. Rubbing the back of his neck, Stiles nodded slowly.

"Well, I hate to have to leave in the midst of this conversation that turned incredible awkward all of a sudden, but a certain valedictorian is still on my to find list." Slapping Scott's shoulder, Stiles gave him the most encouraging smile he could muster. "See you at that buffet, buddy."

"Better hope you get there before me if you want food."

Laughing even though he was already putting a bit of distance between himself and Scott, he turned around just to bump into someone else. "Oh god, I'm sorry," Stiles quickly said, pulling his hands up in the innocent gesture. The woman who he'd almost plowed over shook her head, a smile on her face.

"It's alright," she said before turning back to whoever she'd been talking to. "Yeah, like I was saying, that little redhead girl who was valedictorian gave a really good speech, don't you think?"

Stiles Stilinski wasn't the type to just butt into a random conversation, but when he saw his window of opportunity, he wasn't one who would simply pass it up. "Sorry to interrupt, but it's strawberry blonde," he said, jutting his head so he was now physically in the conversation. The two women just stared at him in complete and utter confusion. "Valedictorian you were talking about? Her hair's not red, it's strawberry blonde; you just didn't see the light catch it right—"

"Stiles, don't torment strangers with the technical color of my hair," a voice chuckled from behind him.

Turning around, there was Lydia who had the cheekiest look on her face. Not wasting a moment, Stiles reached out and picked her up, twirling her around slightly. "Just informing the public," he responded as he set her down.

"What would I ever do without you?" she mused, standing up on her tiptoes to press a kiss on his lips.

God only knows, Lydia. God only knows.

**v.**

College was definitely a new venture in Stiles and Lydia's lives, especially because the two of them hardly saw each other except on the weekends. It probably had something to do with Lydia's internship and classes and the few classes that Stiles did take all interfering. The odds when it came to having schedules that permitted them to see each other for more than thirty minutes every weeknight were most definitely not in their favor.

Lounging on the couch was one of their favorite pastimes whenever they did have some downtime, merely because it involved two of the things that they found themselves severely deprived of during the week: relaxation and time with each other. There were a lot of TV shows that Lydia had recorded on DVR for their time together; he knew how badly it irritated her that she wasn't able to keep up with all her favorites as they aired.

Lydia was just about to start another Game of Thrones episode before she looked up at her boyfriend, who was currently occupied with running his fingers monotonously through her hair. "When's the pizza supposed to get here?" she asked.

"Any day now, hopefully," he muttered. Pizza took forever to deliver, even though it was probably a ten minute drive from there to their apartment. "I'm so sick of Ramen that I literally might throw up if I see another pack of it."

Lydia chuckled, sliding up further into his embrace. "You'll be fine." A small harrumph fell past her lips after a brief moment of silence. "Although I really do want that pizza."

"Exactly what I'm saying."

The episode had just barely started before they heard the knock on their door. Lydia sat up straight, stretching her arms back. "I'll grab it," she insisted before disappearing from Stiles' sight. He didn't say anything, just pressed pause on the recording and bid himself to watching the ceiling fan spin around and around in circles.

It was taking a hell of a lot longer than usual to pay for their pizza, he realized as the fan made its fiftieth rotation—maybe it was fifty, he wasn't too sure since that thing flew at the speed of light. "Stiles?" Lydia's voice called from the door.

No one could really tell the passing of time before Stiles appeared at Lydia's side. The high school kid who was holding their pizza didn't look harmless, but it changed nothing about the fact that Stiles was still overly protective of his girlfriend. "Yeah, Lyds?" he asked, never taking his eyes off of the kid. It wasn't like Stiles could actually do any damage unless he reached behind the door and grabbed the baseball bat—which, even then wouldn't do nearly enough to the poor kid—but this kid obviously was of no threat. He looked like he'd have trouble lifting that giant pizza carrier when someone ordered three zillion pizzas for their parties.

"I don't have enough in here," Lydia said as she continued to rummage through her wallet. "Do you have a ten?"

Nodding, Stiles rested a hand on her shoulder. "Go back to the couch, I've got this," he reassured her. She just nodded, walking past him to where the TV was awaiting her. Grabbing his wallet off of the foyer table that Lydia had insisted was a necessity when finding an apartment; he pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to the kid in exchange for the pizza.

"That redhead your girlfriend?" the pizza kid asked, and Stiles' eyes snapped up to attention. A scowl formed on his face as he took the pizza out of his hands.

"Yeah she is, and for the record, it's strawberry blonde." There was nothing else that needed to be said there obviously, so Stiles just simply slammed the door in the guy's face.

Kid didn't deserve a tip anyways; he was twenty minutes late with that pizza as it was.

**+1**

Lydia could easily tell when Stiles was nervous; it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that kind of stuff out, really, but it had a lot to do with the fact that she knew him better than anyone else did.

Stiles' hands would slightly shake, his eyes would dart around every few seconds to avoid whatever he was really looking at, and there was the awkward rubbing of the back of his neck or his chin. She always told him that she knew whenever he was freaking out over something and he still to this day didn't have a single clue as to how she knew. She just never told him that his body language sold him out.

At the current moment, Stiles was nervously popping his fingers over and over again and of course, rubbing the back of his neck. Stifling a laugh at her boyfriend, Lydia nudged him in the arm. "Penny for your thoughts?" she quipped.

"Huh?" he almost immediately responded before shaking out of whatever zone he'd been trapped in. Extending the arm closest to her around her shoulder and resting on the back of the bench they were currently sitting on in the edge of the park, he shook his head. "Oh, I'm not really, it's nothing, Lyds."

Lydia nodded slowly. "Okay, well it's kind of written all over your face that you're trapped in your own mind, so you wanna share?"

"No," he insisted, shaking his head with his hand sure enough moving down his jaw line. "It's nothing to worry about, okay?"

"Stiles…"

In no time at all, Stiles had moved from his seat on the bench to his knees, staring up at Lydia. Shock was written all over her face. "Okay, fine, something's on my mind but I didn't really want to do it here in the park—"

"—Stiles—"

"Lydia, marry me." Lydia was stunned at the straightforwardness of it all, but it didn't take away from the fact that the tears were already on their way. He was in front of her on one knee, his hands slightly shaking as they held onto hers, looking at her like she was the sun. "I want you and your cute little self to spend every minute of the rest of your life with me, even though that probably doesn't sound appealing to you in the slightest. I want to wake up to you every morning, I want to attempt to make you breakfast but accidentally set it on fire, I want to trade in my Jeep for something that I can drive our mini-me's around—I want to have mini me's with my awkwardness and your beautiful red hair and green eyes and I just want to be with you all the time, alright? So will you marry me?" Stiles spit out, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the little box where the ring intended just for her sat upon velvet, glistening in the sunlight.

"Strawberry blonde," she mumbled absentmindedly, the wind almost completely taken from her chest as she stared, entranced by the sparkling diamond.

"What?"

"Our kids. They'll have your awkwardness and my strawberry blonde hair."

That was more than a good enough answer for Stiles.

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**A/N: So there you go! Be sure to leave me your thoughts (or love, love is good) in a pretty little review that I know you're thinking of leaving me. It'd mean the world. Wink wink. Nudge.**


End file.
